


Operation Morpheus

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-27
Updated: 2010-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:45:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a cunning plan. It kind of works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Operation Morpheus

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "sleepy times" for schmoopbingo.

  
Time was, sleep was one of the great romances of Dean’s life, right after his car and his food. He could crash for eight hours any time he chose, and though he denied it he excelled at naps. Sam wasn’t much of a napper himself, not away from Dean. Even when he’d pulled all-nighters at Stanford, he could never drop off in the afternoon in the dorm. In the apartment sometimes he could fall asleep to the sound of Jess turning pages or typing, or clattering pans in the kitchen in her experimental baking phase. But the sight of Dean blissfully sacked out, drooling gently and clutching his pillow protectively, always proved so soothing Sam found his own eyes closing. Like his brother asleep was some visual lullaby.

Then came hell, and the hell that followed hell

Now, two years and five months down the road, they can put that behind them. Sam’s had enough of Dean hollow-eyed, strung out on exhaustion and twitchy. He’s never had much luck saving his brother, but maybe he can fix something. He’s going to repair Dean’s relationship with sleep.

  
Jess had a whole list of prescriptions for Sam’s insomnia. Some of them Sam has reluctantly to reject in the planning stages. A regular schedule is out. As for warm milk, Dean might sleep better for the exertion of disposing of Sam’s body, but there are limits to fraternal sacrifice.

Lack of exercise isn’t a problem, but their usual workouts aren’t exactly yoga. So Sam institutes evening walks on the nights they stay in. Dean looks at him funny, sure, but he seemingly files it under “my brother is crazy since being possessed by the devil” and comes along. They ramble past gas stations and watch the sun set behind strip malls.

It’s lucky, in fact, Dean’s delusion that post-cage Sam is fragile. He doesn’t protest when Sam vetoes night drives and drags them home from pool tables at 9:30. Dean’s not about to sit in the dark once they’re back and listen to the Goldberg Variations or something. But Sam deploys his most obnoxious whining and shifts their evening TV from car chases to documentaries. There’s nothing more soporific than nature shows. No one can stay alert while a deep, soothing voiceover expounds the thrilling lifestyle of the sandcrab.

Jess swore by aromatherapy, and it actually kind of worked. The thought of buying Dean candles, or, worse, essential oils and a little clay burner, brings Sam abject terror, but he can be cunning. He switches his shower schedule from morning to bedtime, and buys himself lavender shampoo and lavender soap. Dean’s mockery is cruel, of course. But it can’t stop the nightly influx of scented steam.

Sam’s pretty proud of himself on that one, actually. He’s, like, an evil genius, only good.

By the end of a week Sam’s sure his plan is working. Saturday night at ten, and they’re in the motel room in sweats. They’re both on the bed closer to the TV, though Sam’s confident that neither of them’s watching. He’s not, certainly. He has the laptop out, researching their next job, but he’s also keeping an eye on Dean. Dean’s leaning back on three pillows, and he hasn’t got out _Busty Asian Beauties_ or guns to clean or anything. He’s right up against Sam’s shoulder, well within the zone of lavender Sam’s still exuding. Sam can feel Dean’s body heat, faint warmth all along his right side. It’s chilly out, raining. Tire hiss from the highway, vague drips and taps at the window.

  
The guy on TV is saying something important. They’ve found giant sandworms on Jupiter. That’s a problem, Sam thinks. It doesn’t sound urgent, though, not like he has to get up right now and deal with it. They can always call Bobby in the morning. Bobby’s bound to have the lowdown on giant sandworms. Dean’s looking pretty relaxed, eyes closed, maybe planning their route out to Jupiter. Maybe almost asleep. Yeah, Sam’s plan is working.

***************************************************************************

  
Sam’s asleep, thank God. Or whoever. It’s not just that Dean’s glad to see him get some rest. He hasn’t been sleeping well, not since Lucifer. Dean’s grateful the kid’s taking care of himself for once, going in for early nights and all. Dean’ll call it a day at nine if that’s what Sam needs, and not embarrass him by talking about it.

Right now the more immediate relief is that Dean can finally, _finally_ change the fucking channel. The nature documentary Sam insisted on watching has reached some kind of apotheosis of boring, droning on about earthworms and how they condition the soil.

For now Dean just turns it off. He slides the laptop carefully from under Sam’s slack hands and sets it away, closed, on the bedside table. It would probably be pushing it to try to get Sam to lie down properly, under the covers. Anyway, the motel room is warm, despite the cold rain outside. It’s not so uncomfortable, Sam tilted against his shoulder, breathing quietly in his ear. Even the ridiculous, Y-chromosome-corroding scent from his damp hair isn’t too bad. It’s kind of hypnotic, watching his chest rise and fall, knowing he’s back, that he’s not going anywhere.

In a minute Dean will turn the TV back on, find a movie. Or maybe he’ll grab the laptop, take over on the research. He’s just going to rest his eyes for a moment first.


End file.
